Shadows of the Gods: Crimson Worlds Refugees II (21 page)

“Do you really feel that way, Duncan?” It was Ana. She took a few steps closer to the big Marine, reaching up and putting her hand on his armored shoulder.”

“Yes,” he replied. “I do. We’ll fight to the end, I’d bet my last breath on that, but fifteen hundred Marines aren’t going to keep us all alive. Neither are a hundred forty ships, most of them low on weapons, spare parts…everything. We might get off this planet, last another six months, maybe a year. But we need a real game changer if we’re going to have a true future. And as far as I can see it, the two of you are the only place that’s going to come from. Even a ten percent chance at salvation is worth more than certain, slow death. At least to me, it is.”

“Thank you, Duncan.” Cutter reached down and pulled on the small jacket he’d set aside. The left arm was torn open and splotched with blood, now mostly dried. “I can promise you my intention is to do whatever is necessary to find a way for our people to survive…regardless of the risk.” He paused, flashing a quick glance back toward Ana. “I’m going to take a quick look forward…we’ll leave in ten, okay?”

Frasier nodded. “Yes,” he said simply.

Cutter scooped up his body armor and walked slowly forward, keeping his head turned away, the smile on his lips to himself. He could only give them ten minutes together. Then they all had to set out again. But he intended for them to have those brief few moments. He knew either of them or both could die before they had any more time to themselves.

*    *    *

Sophie stared out over the horizon, watching the last deep-red rays of the sun setting behind the distant hills. The crops were a meter high already, swaying in the breeze amid the growing dusk. It was a picturesque scene, almost idyllic, save for one thing. One of her people had died today.

She’d heard the communiqués from Cutter’s expedition over the last several days, one report after another of combat, of more people dead. They’d been attacked half a dozen times as they worked their way deeper into the underground complex beneath the ruins of the metropolis they had dubbed ‘New York City.’ She’d laughed at that first time she’d heard that, a welcome bit of humor. But she was in no mood for levity now.

She knew Ana and Hieronymus were in great danger, and she realized their team and the Marines had suffered heavy casualties, far worse than anything her people had endured. But Raj Kalapor had been a gifted scientist, one of the best and most dedicated of her crew. And his death hit home.

He’d been on the far fringe of the fields, checking on the progress of a section of genetically-enhanced legumes when a phalanx of First Imperium drones flew in over the distant ridge. Kalapor sounded the alarm…and then he took off at a dead run, trying to get back to the camp before the weapons reached him. He made it about halfway…and then two of them landed within a meter of him. There hadn’t been much left when Preston’s Marines got there, barely enough to confirm it was him.

The other drones landed in the middle of the fields, taking out a hundred square meters of crops, but otherwise inflicting no casualties. Nevertheless, the damage had already been done. Kalapor was the second of Barcomme’s people lost to random enemy action. And six of Preston’s Marines were dead too. The camp wasn’t under attack, at least nothing sustained. It was more like alarm systems triggering the occasional piece of still-functional weaponry. No real threat to the expedition as a whole, at least not yet. But they all hurt.

The base camp hadn’t suffered anything like the kind of punishment Cutter’s expedition had, but there was still a haunted, eerie quality to the seemingly idyllic world…creepy vestiges of the war that had once raged there. She found herself hating the planet, longing to leave. She’d been overwhelmed with work the first few weeks, but now the crops were growing, and she found herself with time on her hands. Time to think. About the casualties her people had suffered…and other losses too.

She’d felt the emptiness inside her since the day the fleet had been trapped beyond the Barrier, the loss of her family slicing keenly into her. She’d despaired of ever healing, of feeling whole again, but now the cold starkness of this alien world made her realize just how far she had come in the last year. Terrance Compton had helped her begin her recovery…she wasn’t sure she could have done it alone. The pain was still there, as she knew it would always be. But she dared to think of living a life as part of the fleet, of knowing something other than sadness and fear. If her team could finish their mission, restock the fleet’s food supply, maybe…just maybe their people could find a life somewhere, one worth living. One that entailed more than running and fighting.

She sighed. “Perhaps,” she whispered to herself. “Perhaps…”

But the darkness was still inside her, weighing down her every thought. She’d come a small way, but she still didn’t believe in their future. Not really. Not yet. But she was a bit closer than she had been…and that was something.

*    *    *

“McCloud, get your bastards up forward and scout the area ahead. I don’t want anything to take us by surprise.” Kyle Bruce was walking next to Hieronymus, shouting out commands to the hulking Marine standing not quite at attention in front of him.

“Yes, sir.” The Marine turned almost immediately and walked off down the wide tunnel. His voice was gruff, not quite insubordinate, but not with the level of respect Cutter had become used to hearing when Marines spoke with their superior officers.

“What was that all about?” Cutter asked. The expedition had made camp for the night, but Cutter was restless and he’d decided to take a look around a bit farther down the corridor. He’d tried to get out alone, swearing he would only go out a few hundred meters, but Frasier wasn’t about to let him get out of sight without an escort. The major insisted on a guard detail…and Cutter had clearly heard him tell Bruce to put together a team and, ‘take McCloud’s squad along.’

Bruce sighed. “McCloud’s a pain in the ass,” he said, turning toward Cutter. “All his people are. Always have been. A bunch of foul-tempered rejects.”

“I’m surprised Major Frasier puts up with that.” Cutter seemed genuinely confused. He’d come to know the commander of the Scots Company fairly well since their adventures on the Colossus, and the last thing he’d expect was for Frasier to put up with insubordinate Marines.

Bruce smiled. “Well, he wouldn’t under most circumstances. But Duff McCloud and his pack of vipers aren’t ‘most circumstances.’”

“How so?”

“Well…” Bruce said, pausing for a few seconds, clearly trying to decide how he wanted to put it. “Let’s just say that they’re good fighters. Damned good fighters…good enough to be worth putting up with. And, however much a handful they are, they’re on our side.”

Cutter had a hard time imagining Frasier—or Colonel Preston—putting up with a group of headcases. But they knew their business a lot better than he did, so he just nodded even though he didn’t understand.
Can they be that good?

“How far down do you think we are?” Bruce asked, looking around as he did.

“Over a kilometer. I had hoped to find some extensive facilities under the city, but I hadn’t imagined anything like this.” They were in a broad underground tunnel, almost ten meters wide and stretching deep into the darkness ahead. They’d been underground almost a week, wandering through an enormous network of passageways and subterranean facilities. Most of it was old, worn down to the basic structures…but Cutter’s people had found a considerable number of artifacts too. There were a lot of familiar pieces, bits and pieces of First Imperium warbots and the like. But there were other materials too…weapons and parts of equipment that were unfamiliar. It was possible they were simply dealing with new types of enemy gear, items they simply had not encountered previously. But Cutter didn’t think so. He had less concrete evidence than he would have liked, but his feeling was strong. Some of these items were different. After all, there had been war here…and he knew war took two sides.

“How deep do you plan to go?” Bruce looked around uneasily as he spoke. Cutter knew the lieutenant was a combat veteran and a Marine. But he also suspected Bruce’s battles had been mostly above ground affairs, and now the Marine officer was beginning to realize he had a touch of claustrophobia.

Cutter had to fight back a smile. He was so accustomed to the straightforward courage of the Marines, he sometimes forget they were men and women too…and they all had their own fears. Bruce was keeping it together, but Cutter could tell the thought of over a kilometer of rock over his head made him decidedly uneasy.

“As deep as we have to go, Kyle,” Cutter said, the firmness and confidence in his voice surprising even himself. He’d almost lied, suggested that they were as far down as they were going. But he felt if the Marines deserved anything on a mission like this, it was honestly. “Hopefully not much farther,” he added.

Bruce nodded, trying with limited success to wipe the concerned look off his face. He looked like he was about to say something else when his head snapped around suddenly, looking back the way they had come…toward the camp.

There was a dull thud, off in the distance, a non-descript sound, low-pitched, soft. Cutter hardly noticed it at first…not until he saw Bruce turn back and look down the dark hallway stretching out behind them.

“What is it?” Cutter asked, but he already knew. Then another deep rumble rattled through the tunnels, louder, closer. And he was certain.

The camp was under attack.

Chapter Fourteen

Admiral Erica West During the Battle of the X57 Gate

Give yourselves a moment, a few seconds to remember those you love, all you care about…and to say a silent farewell, lest you don’t see them again. Take another instant to recount why you fight, to consider your motivations, to understand what drives you into the maelstrom. And lastly, look inside yourself, to your honor, your fortitude, to all that makes you what you are, gives you the essential strength that carries you to war.

Think in the brief moment before the fight of all of this, of everything that makes you the men and women you are. Then, forget it all, every last bit of it, for there is but one thing that matters. Send these bastards to hell!

Approaching AS Saratoga

X56 System – Near the X57 warp gate

The Fleet: 127 ships, 29807 crew

“I want you to bring your people in next, Commander.” Greta Hurley’s voice was icy, resolute. Mariko had never seen an officer so coldly focused on getting her people back home. Or as close to home as was available.

“But Admiral, what about you and…”

“But is not in your vocabulary, Commander Fujin.” Mariko felt like the speaker of her com unit rattled with the force of Hurley’s voice. “Follow your orders…and get those ships in now. We don’t have time to waste on bullshit.”

“Yes, Admiral,” she replied, suitably chastened. Her job was getting her three squadrons in safely, which was a handful in itself under the current conditions.
Saratoga
had been pretty roughed up in the fight, but somehow Admiral West had managed to keep the bays open. Her crews had already landed more than the forty-eight birds she’d been designed to hold, but
Conde
had only managed to get twenty ships aboard before her last bay took another hit and shut down. And that meant
Saratoga
had to cram in almost twice her capacity—and do it in the heat of battle.

“Alright everybody,” Fujin snapped out over the com, “we’re going in. Lightnings in alpha bay…Wildcats in beta bay. And the Dragons will bring up the rear.”
Assuming they can shove us all in there somewhere…and whatever miracle is keeping those bays operating holds…

Fujin had lost four ships in the battle, two from the Wildcats and one each from the Lightnings and the Dragons. The other fourteen were decelerating hard, hoping their fuel would last long enough to get them inside the hulking warship. However it turned out, it was going to come right down to the wire.

She glanced at the tactical display. West’s task force was winning the battle, there was no question about that. Half the enemy ships were gone already, and most of the rest of them were wracked with internal explosions and bleeding gasses and fluids. But her forces had suffered badly too, especially in the initial approach, where they’d been forced to endure the enemy’s longer-ranged fire. Half a dozen ships were gone, and from a quick glance at the scanners, Fujin figured
Conde’s
chances of making it through the battle were no better than fifty-fifty. And if she didn’t pull through, four of Hurley’s squadrons would go down with her.

“Tighten that line, Wildcat Leader,” she snapped suddenly into the com. Her eyes had caught a gap between the second and fifth birds…the empty space where two of the Wildcats’ ships, and ten of their men and women, should have been but weren’t anymore. She understood how hard it was on a squadron commander to lose people, but now she was focused on one thing…getting all her surviving crews onboard that ship while there was still time.

“Yes, Commander.” And a few seconds later: “Commencing landing in thirty seconds.”

Fujin stared at the screen, watching as the Wildcats’ formation tightened up. She knew she only had to tell Bev Jones once. She felt a rush of satisfaction, but it faded quickly.
I shouldn’t have had to tell her at all…

There was a logic to the hard edge Mariko Fujin had acquired since assuming wing command, a cold, rational effort to consider every aspect of the operation. Jones was a good officer, Mariko was certain of that, but she was too new to squadron command…and, honestly, too slow to adapt. The Wildcats’ leader was her friend, but now more than ever, she felt the yawning gulf between Jones and herself. Friendship only went so far…at least when lives were on the line. And if she decided Jones wasn’t ready to lead a squadron and she demoted her, what would that do to their relationship? Would Bev take it as a betrayal? Or would she understand Mariko was thinking of the wing?